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by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-10 22:12:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3305258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis has officially moved in, clothes and everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



“You can repaint the walls, if you want to. All you would have to do is pick the colour. I could have someone come in and –“

“I like the colour,” Aramis murmurs into Porthos’ chest, “I like everything about this room.”

Athos does not say anything to rebuff that statement, and Aramis takes a peek at him, lying shoulder to shoulder with Porthos on Aramis’ bed. The new one. The one Athos bought for him. Its dark wood fits in nicely with the cream-coloured walls, matches the chocolate brown stripe circling around all four walls to a shade. It’s also immensely comfortable.

Athos is looking up at the ceiling, his hands folded on his chest, and he is smiling, content and relaxed. It did not take them very long to sort Aramis’ belongings into cupboards and drawers, but Porthos nevertheless insisted on them taking a proper break before starting to prepare dinner. So he pulled Aramis with him when he collapsed onto the bed in a manner both exaggerated and irresistible.

Athos joined them out of free will, and Aramis _loves_ that, loves that Athos doesn’t shy away from being close to them – not even when Aramis is lying on top of Porthos and being kissed every two minutes.

“I should have known you would like it,” Athos says quietly … just when another of those kisses is being inflicted on Aramis, who finds it harder and harder to resist Porthos’ boundless sweetness. “Porthos was the one who picked all the colours for the apartment.”

That makes Aramis pull back and lift his head, and blink down at Porthos in fond amusement. “Athos wasn’t allowed to pick his own colours?”

“Everythin’ would have been blue,” Porthos replies solemnly. “ _Everythin’_.”

Athos does not dispute it, and Aramis giggles, hides his face against Porthos’ shoulder.

“You’d think with him paintin’ all the time his taste would be a bit more sophisticated,” Porthos rumbles on, the grin audible in his voice, “but _no_ , he’s too lazy to put effort into it, says _he doesn’t care_. I couldn’t have that, him livin’ in a room that looks as though grumpy smurfs had overrun it.”

Athos huffs, but that is all he does. He still doesn’t dispute Porthos’ statement, still doesn’t say a word to defend himself. All he says in the end is, “I like blue.”

It makes Aramis giggle again, the clear intent to get a rise out of Porthos in his voice.

“You do _not_!” Porthos growls promptly. “You like brown’n’green, and that’s why your damn room is brown’n’green, and not blue.”

When Aramis looks at Athos again, he is grinning, very, very softly. “So you told me, yes.”

Porthos growls again, _scandalized_ , and Athos winks at Aramis, and sits up. “Shall I order dinner then?”

“No, I’m gonna cook, lie yourself back down,” Porthos grunts. “My shoulder’s gettin’ cold.”

Athos obediently resumes his original position, and Porthos sighs, audibly content. He strokes his fingers through Aramis’ hair, holds him safe and warm, and Aramis would fall asleep if he wasn’t so intent on not missing a single moment of this. He is ridiculously happy. Even now that they talked and Porthos knows about Aramis’ past, he does not treat him any differently – does not _touch_ him any differently. There is this deep-rooted, sturdy calm about Porthos that never quite goes away, and although Aramis would call him anything but boring, he can never quite imagine Porthos losing his temper. He always seems so … gentle.

“’M gonna make dinner now,” Porthos proclaims after a few minutes of silent snuggling. Instead of allowing Aramis to get up, he rolls him over so he’s lying next to Athos, pats Aramis’ stomach and smiles at him. “’M gonna call when it’s ready. You two get some more rest.”

“We are not quite so old yet,” Athos drawls comfortably, and Aramis turns his head to look at him, finds him smiling yet again.

“Says the beardy fellow in the over-sized cardigan,” Porthos shoots back, earning himself a raised eyebrow.

“You are describing yourself now?”

“My cardigan fits me,” Porthos points out and straightens, wearing his dark-green knitwear with pride and grace. He doesn’t have to tell Aramis that the cardigan Athos is sporting belongs to Porthos as well. It’s all too obvious with the overlong sleeves, too wide shoulders and overall too much _space_ the thing offers Athos. Porthos winks at Aramis and leaves, and since it is all too clear that he wants Aramis and Athos to stay right where they are, neither of them dares move a muscle.

They remain quiet for a long moment, strangely comfortable with the other’s presence. It keeps surprising Aramis – not that he likes Athos so much, but that Athos seems to like him in return. According to Porthos – and what Aramis has learned from the people at the orphanage – Athos is … he doesn’t like people, generally. Not the way he likes Porthos at least. He doesn’t want them in his space, abhors small-talk, prefers to be left alone most of the time. He’s wonderful with the children, with the Captain and Flea and Charon, but those are people he’s known his whole life. From the way they keep staring at his treatment of Aramis … well. It doesn’t seem to be the norm.

“He was worried about you.” Athos’ voice drops into Aramis’ consciousness like an unexpected shower of summer rain. Aramis blinks, rolls onto his side to get a proper look at Athos’ face. “Porthos, I mean,” Athos elaborates, as though there’d been any question about that. “I am glad things have turned out alright.”

He does not add anything, does not ask Aramis any questions, and Aramis is dangerously close to rolling on top of him and giving him a hug. Athos is just so _nice_ , without quite realizing that he is – cares so deeply for his friend.

Aramis clears his throat. “I’m sorry I worried him.”

Athos turns his head, looks directly into Aramis’ eyes. “That is not what I meant to say.” He looks very serious all of a sudden. “I am glad _you_ are alright.”

Aramis blinks, stares at Athos for a long moment, and then he gives into his first impulse, rolls over and half on top of Athos. The noise leaving Athos’ throat in response to this makes Aramis smile, and he clings to him, takes a deep breath. “I’m really sorry but I _have_ to.”

“Oh, if you _have_ to it’s quite alright,” Athos drawls – a bit breathless, but otherwise steady enough. He brings his arms up to hug Aramis, rubs his hands over Aramis’ back, and Aramis closes his eyes and shivers in content. It's been so long since he got hugged with the sincerity and frequency he needs. Athos seems to understand that, allows Aramis to breathe against his neck and claim him as his cushion, even goes so far as to move them both ever so slightly as to bring them into a more comfortable position.

Aramis sighs, feeling warm and safe, doesn’t even tense when Athos clears his throat. “You are aware that you are welcome to tell me if you ever … if you ever need anything?”

Aramis stiffens, swallows, and lifts his head. “You … you don’t have to –“

“Well, obviously I do not have to,” Athos interrupts him gently. “I do not have to do anything. That is why I said it. I am aware that you are … are moving in with _Porthos_ more than you are moving in with _us_ , but I still think –“

“But I am!” Aramis exclaims. “Moving in with _you_ I mean – both of you! You were the one who offered this room to me after all! You are the one who paid for my new furniture – and I mean to pay you back by the way, I don’t want you to think that I can’t –“ Just like that Athos is smirking, and Aramis falters, continues in a far more sedate fashion, “… That I can’t care for myself.”

Athos doesn’t offer anything in reply; he keeps grinning at Aramis, a little bit lopsided, and Aramis hastily puts his head back on Athos’ chest. “You paid for Porthos’ stuff too, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Athos drawls. “I had to repay him in some way for making sure my room wouldn’t be overrun by grumpy smurfs after all.”


	2. Chapter 2

“We should help Porthos,” Aramis murmurs after about five minutes of enthusiastic Athos-snuggling, “I don’t want him to do all the work.”

Athos huffs, his hands still on Aramis’ back, warm and comfortable. “He neither needs nor wants our help, believe me. I have been summarily dismissed from the kitchen often enough to know that.”

Aramis lifts his head at that, puts one hand beneath his chin on Athos’ chest and looks at Athos’ face. “But I thought you were the one who didn’t like company in the kitchen?”

“Well,” Athos drawls, “it might have to do more with my own ineptitude than anything else.”

Aramis grins and releases Athos from his cushion-duty. “Then let’s at least keep him company. He’ll hardly dismiss us from doing that.”

“I should hope not,” Athos replies dryly as he sits up.

They get off the bed and leave Aramis’ room to find Porthos in the kitchen, busy chopping paprika and tomatoes into a pan with onions and garlic.

“Before you start complaining,” Athos says as soon as Porthos lifts his head to look at them, “I was perfectly ready to abandon you to your solitary work, but Aramis missed you.”

Aramis promptly flushes, and Porthos grins and winks at him, “That’s a good thing, cause I missed him too.”

The fond teasing in his voice makes Aramis grin at him in return, and Athos smirks, gets Aramis and himself two glasses out of the cupboard and fills them with water. They sit down on the opposite side of the cooking isle from Porthos and watch him for a moment without saying anything. Aramis allows himself to enjoy both his and Athos’ company, feels already so much at home with them that he does not mind the silence at all. They don’t make him nervous, he fears neither their words nor their thoughts. They _like_ him.

He watches Porthos chop another paprika, watches him add it to the pan and lifts an interested eyebrow. “What are you making?”

“Pasta sauce,” Porthos rumbles comfortably. “You’ll get a proper feast on the weekend, promise.”

Aramis has already opened his mouth to tell him that he considers this pasta sauce something of a feast already and that Porthos really doesn’t need to bother himself with cooking so much, when Athos gently clears his throat. “Don’t think he does it only for you, Aramis – he likes to eat. That’s all there is to it.”

Porthos doesn’t dispute it, just grins again and states that he has to feed himself _somehow_ , and Aramis relaxes. It’s just so easy with these two, easy to be around them and please them.

Porthos’ sauce doesn’t take much more preparation, and once it lives up to his expectations he boils the pasta. Aramis springs up to set the table – has paid painful attention to learn where to find things in the last five months – and Athos unearths a bottle of wine from one of the cupboards.

“I didn’t know we had that,” Porthos comments comfortably while draining the pasta.

“Yes, I was hiding it for a special moment,” Athos replies with a dignified air to which Porthos reacts by lifting both brows and pouting in a rather unimpressed manner.

“Were you hidin’ it from yourself?”

“From Thomas, at the time,” Athos drawls and smiles at Aramis when he hands him a corkscrew. “You know how Evangeline complains when he brings the girls home and smells of wine.”

“Yeah, cause she keeps insistin’ you always have the best wine and doesn’t like him drinkin’ it when she doesn’t get anythin’.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees filling their glasses. “Thus the hiding.”

Aramis blinks from one to the other, waiting for further explanation to come forward, and Athos smiles at him again. “Thomas is my younger brother. He is here quite frequently, with my nieces. It is something of a marvel you haven’t met yet.”

“He’ll do so soon enough now,” Porthos says with a satisfied air. “It’s inevitable.”

Aramis flushes a bit at the thought of meeting Athos’ family. Since Athos is so nice there should be nothing to fear though. Especially not from his nieces, if the fierce pride with which Athos mentioned them is anything to go by.

The wine is really very good, and Aramis has drained half his glass before he remembers that he should maybe eat something as well. Porthos chuckles at his guilty expression, and fills his plate with an air of fond indulgence. “Told you Athos always has the best wine.”

“Yes,” Aramis agrees and clears his throat. He puts his glass down and flushes a bit more when Athos immediately refills it.

“Don’t get him drunk,” Porthos admonishes without any heat, and Athos smirks.

“Why not? It’s easy enough to put him to bed now.”

Aramis is very glad he’s neither eating nor drinking at the moment. He blushes so hotly that he can feel the blood rise in his cheeks, doesn’t know if he should feel mortified or just … or just … he takes a deep breath, can’t stop himself from giggling. “I’m horrible at holding my drink, actually.”

“No more wine for you then,” Athos replies calmly. “Enjoy your food, gentlemen.”

Aramis doesn’t need further invitation to start eating. The sauce is good, creamy and aromatic, and he sighs in pleasure, hasn’t had anything this nice outside of a restaurant since he moved away from home and his father’s cooking. Porthos eyes him expectantly, and Aramis nods at him, still chewing, his eyes transporting his utter delight at the food to such a point that Porthos grins, evidently gratified. “’M glad you like it.”

“Did you expect him not to?” Athos inquires incredulously. “Or are you playing coy?”

“Will you just let me be glad?” Porthos rumbles. “It’s perfectly natural that I want him to like my cookin’!”

“So it is,” Athos admits, trying and failing to hide his fond grin behind his wineglass.

Aramis makes no attempt to get involved in their conversation, is far too busy inhaling the food. Porthos serves him a second helping without prompting, and Aramis hamsters on, gets so much enjoyment out of the meal that it makes him a little fluttery. The wine does not have any effect on him apart from a nice warm feeling in his gut – it is the food and the company that excite his sense of contentment. Athos and Porthos let him eat while they discuss their plans for the coming week. They make a mental list for what needs to be bought to restock the fridge; Porthos proudly displays his knowledge about Aramis’ preferred snacks – “We need cashews and some trail mix!” – and talks about getting more cushions and blankets for the couch now that Aramis lives with them.

Eventually they arrive on the latest orphanage-gossip: recurring indications that Teddy seems to be hopelessly in love with Flea. That reminds Aramis of a story of his own. “Constance has a similar problem.”

Athos arches his left brow. “A six-year old who’s madly in love with her?”

Aramis grins. “She keeps insisting he’s twelve, but the other part sounds about right.”

Porthos chuckles and puts his wineglass down. “I gotta meet that Constance of yours, I think I’ll like her.”

“She’s great,” Aramis assures him with a beaming smile – only to check himself half a second later. “I – I mean we’re just friends of course, we’ve always been just –“

“I know,” Porthos interrupts him gently, “I know she’s your friend.” He reaches out his hand over the table, takes Aramis’ in his. “’M not the jealous type.”

Aramis remembers how Porthos found Athos and him together on the couch that one night and smiles. “Yes, I know.”

That simple statement seems to suffice. Porthos tries to ply him with more food.

“It’s really very good, but I’m full,” Aramis says softy. “Thank you.”

Porthos promptly rakes the remaining pasta onto his own plate, looking everything but put out about his lot.

“So what does Teddy do then?” Aramis asks while leaning back in his chair. “Does he bring her flowers?”

“Among other things,” Porthos chuckles. “He invites her into the castle a lot – calls her his queen. So far the girls have tolerated it, but since they’re currently a flock of dragons trying to fit their combined hoard into that castle, Flea finds it a trifle difficult to fit into it as well.”

Athos laughs at the mental image the words conjure up, and Aramis, at first surprised by this unexpected outburst, regards him with a little smile of his own.

“Tell me about Constance and this puppy of hers,” Porthos demands. “Who is he?”

Aramis grins, “He’s a cycle messenger – brought us some last minute orders about a month ago. Since then he keeps coming in on the vaguest excuses, always stalks around the shop for at least half an hour, makes adoring eyes at her, picks things at random and puts them back again … and that after the welcome she gave him the first time!”

“Why, what did she do?” Athos asks, since Porthos is too busy clearing his plate.

“Well, he was a bit late,” Aramis explains, “and Constance tells people if she’s displeased with them. Loudly. He was smitten with her the very moment he came in through the door and she called him a useless turtle – only to specify that she liked turtles in general, really, they’re adorable creatures, but it’s probably a stupid idea to put them on bicycles.”

Porthos is grinning at Aramis, his cheeks stuffed full, and he doesn’t have to say a single word for Aramis to know what he’s thinking.

“Yes, well,” Athos drawls, apparently aware of their silent communication, “not everyone gets the perfect first date you two had.”


	3. Chapter 3

Aramis sighs and closes his eyes. He’s in the bathroom, taking a shower, and it is … it’s just so … This must be the most glorious shower he, or anyone else, has ever taken. He has finally found the source of that delicious smell that clings to all of Porthos’ clothes! It’s the body wash Porthos appears to be sharing with Athos. That explains _a lot_ , actually. Aramis barely manages to stop himself from using up half the bottle in one go.

He sighs again and holds his face under the spray, enjoys the warm water on his skin. The water-pressure is perfect. _Everything_ is perfect. The number of bottles in the open shower suggests that Athos and Porthos share not only body-wash but also shampoo, so Aramis doesn’t feel too bad about stealing a little bit of that as well. He battles with his hair for a moment – has forgotten to brush it out beforehand – but the shampoo is surprisingly good at smoothing out the tangled mess.

Aramis relaxes to the point that he’s almost overcome by the sudden longing to hug someone – and ridiculously sad that he didn’t invite Porthos to shower with him. But only for a moment. Because that thought is followed by a _strong_ mental image, and Aramis bites his tongue. God. He’s such an idiot sometimes. It will be difficult enough to sleep under the same roof as Porthos tonight without envisioning him naked and soaped up and –

Aramis groans and rinses out his hair, turns off the water. Takes a deep breath. It will be fine. He won’t throw himself at Porthos at the first chance that offers itself. He won’t crawl into Porthos’ bed tonight. He will remain strong. Even if he wants to sleep in Porthos’ bed more than he could ever find the words to express.

Aramis wraps himself in a huge fluffy towel (even that smells nice; Athos and Porthos must shop somewhere completely out of Aramis’ league), and wrings out his hair before attempting to brush it.

When he emerges from the bathroom ten minutes later he feels relaxed and refreshed and ready to fall into bed and sleep for at least ten years. Porthos passes him on the way to his room, wearing his jeans and nothing else. Aramis bites his tongue, horribly aware of his own state of undress (nothing but pyjama bottoms), and shuffles on as though he hasn’t seen _anything_. Of course Porthos foils that plan by barring his way and reaching out his hand to touch Aramis’ wet hair. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

It has been a long, long time since Aramis last felt this dangerously close to swooning. It must be the dangerous combination of visual and olfactory input – a sensory overload was only a matter of time.

“I’m going to bed!” is thus the completely natural response to Porthos’ words. Aramis wants to shoot himself.

Porthos chuckles. “Yes, I assumed as much.” He leans in to brush a kiss to the left corner of Aramis’ mouth. “Good night, Aramis.”

His voice is low and rough, and Aramis swallows the helpless noise crawling up his throat. “Good night.”

Porthos brushes his fingers through Aramis’ hair, and then he walks on, vanishes into the bathroom. It takes Aramis some effort to stop staring after him, and when he does and turns back around he notices Athos – Athos who is sitting on the sofa with a book in his lap. Aramis flushes scarlet.

“I didn’t see anything,” Athos says without looking up, and Aramis promptly flees into his room.

He flops into bed and pulls the covers over his head, takes a few measured breaths. This is going to kill him. Living with Athos and Porthos is going to kill him.

He rolls around in the huge bed for about half an hour, unable to fall asleep, unable to stop thinking about Porthos. It’s not even about sex. He just wants to _hold_ him. He never … he never really had that. The holding. _Just_ the holding. Apart from Athos, that is … although their situation is slightly … different. … Athos is really sweet, Aramis has to admit. It’s really no wonder he and Porthos get along so well.

A soft knock on the door interrupts that train of thought, and Aramis holds his breath, startled. Then he rolls his eyes at himself. This is getting ridiculous.

“Yes?” he croaks, and then only barely resists pulling his pillow over his head. Way to go, sounding like a strangled cat.

“Can I come in?” Porthos asks him through the door, and Aramis goes hot all over, snaps into a sitting position.

“Yes, please!” … Shooting himself may be the only way out at this point.

The door opens. For one wonderful moment Porthos stands in its frame, outlined by the floor lamp behind him – then Aramis struggles to turn on his bedside lamp. Porthos comes into the room and closes the door behind him, slowly advances on the bed. Aramis watches, and it is _embarrassing_ how his heartbeat quickens, how it jumps into his throat, how he can taste it in his mouth. Porthos is in his pyjamas now, only wearing the pants, just like Aramis, but Aramis will claim until his dying day that Porthos’ lack of attire is worse by far. _So much worse._

“Athos says I flustered you,” Porthos murmurs when he’s a step away from the bed, and then proceeds to _sit down_. “He says you … looked uncomfortable.”

Aramis can only stare at him – can only stare when Porthos takes his hand and lifts it to his mouth, presses a kiss on his knuckles. “I didn’t mean to do that – didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Aramis makes a gurgling noise and falls forward – falls into Porthos and brings their mouths together with clumsy eagerness. He can’t do this anymore, can’t pretend he doesn’t need Porthos like he needs air.

Porthos holds up admirably under his attack, chuckles after the first moment of surprise and puts his arms around Aramis, holds him close and kisses him back. He doesn’t appear to have a problem with Aramis crawling into his lap, holds him nice and tight and strokes his fingers through Aramis’ drying hair. Aramis melts against him, and the frantic beating of his heart finally finds its rhythm.

Porthos hums in approval, kisses Aramis a little deeper, and eventually pulls back – kisses the tip of Aramis’ nose when he tries to follow-up that retreat by another advance. “So I didn’t make you uncomfortable?”

“Sleep with me!” Aramis blurts out – slaps both hands over his mouth immediately afterwards. “In this bed … I mean,” he whispers into his palm and hangs his head.

“Well, I wasn’t gonna sleep on the floor,” Porthos teases him – so very gently that Aramis manages to take a peek at him from underneath his lashes. “Last time I slept on the floor my back didn’t forgive me for three days.”

Aramis very slowly lowers his hands, tries to breathe. “We can’t risk that,” he rasps, trying to get his voice under control. “Upsetting your back again, I mean.”

“Yeah, better not take any risks,” Porthos nods, a soft grin spreading over his face. “Come on then.”

He manhandles Aramis onto the mattress and back beneath the covers so beautifully that Aramis would shiver in pleasure if he wasn’t so aware that Porthos’ skills stem from years and years of putting actual children to bed. Matters being as they are, Aramis’ chest is warming with something other than arousal. Porthos takes him into his arms, pulls him close and kisses his cheek, and Aramis could not feel any safer if he tried to. He doesn’t know if it’s supposed to be like this – this sensation of absolute security in the arms of someone who Aramis has fantasized about more than once.

The sexual attraction is certainly still there. It never quite goes away. But underneath it lurks something else, something that has been there from the very beginning – even before that fateful day in May when they met face to face for the first time. Talking to Porthos has always felt special, even when it still took place in the virtual confines of an online dating site. Porthos’ messages felt different, made Aramis smile wider, even when their wording did not differ overmuch from that of the messages of his other acquaintances. Aramis has felt … connected to him, and he still does; Porthos’ words and his touch fill him with warmth, fill him with light, and Aramis –

“Good night, Aramis.”

Aramis loves him so much already, has lost his heart … irrevocably.

“Good night, Porthos.”

He has no intention of getting it back.


End file.
